


Behind the Book: Stories from Camelot

by Shadowstartigs



Series: Behind the Book [1]
Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (Video Games), Sonic the Hedgehog - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:10:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26130115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowstartigs/pseuds/Shadowstartigs
Summary: Following the end of SatBk, Sonic has remained with the knights of Camelot as their new king. Of course, with this group, life was never going to be easy. This story follows Sonic and his knights in their adventures now Merlina has been defeated. Remake of old work.
Series: Behind the Book [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1897408
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of ease, I will put relevant notes at the start of each chapter. At the moment, that is the ages for our knights. As the story spans several years, I will update where necessary. However, as of this chapter,
> 
> Galahad-16
> 
> Percival- 17
> 
> Lamorak-36
> 
> Lancelot- 34
> 
> Gawain-34.
> 
> Sonic- 15.

The flickering flames catch in the gazes of Camelot’s knights. While they often spent nights in the wilderness and all were perfectly at ease within the forest—so long as they had a blade to hand—this was the first time they had engaged in the act for leisure. Camping, however, was apparently a popular pastime in Sonic’s world. Through a combination of persuasion, badgering and direct commands, the blue hedgehog had managed to drag five of his knights into accompanying him on the trip. 

Now, as they sat listening to the gentle roar of the fire, a soft stream of chatter had begun. Lamorak had draped his arms around Gawain and Lancelot, reflecting on the old days when they were all young knights, and the reign of the false Arthur was new. Neither of his companions looked thrilled at the contact from Camelot’s loudest and most flamboyant knight. Still, the mention of past days must have sparked some sense of nostalgia as neither had thrown him off. Lancelot even laughed at some anecdote about Tristan.   
Too young to know the old guard and too uninterested in listening to their relatives reminisce, Percival and Galahad were content reclining by the fire and quizzing Sonic about his home. The violet cat let one hand linger in the flames, ready to fuel or dim the blaze as needed. Content with his captive audience and probably homesick, Sonic was vividly describing something called a marshmallow and other camping traditions as Caliburn dozed. 

At last, Sonic trails off, emerald eyes surveying his happy band, “Well, I think I’m out of stories from home.” A wicked grin flashes, “But, if those three are getting nostalgic, maybe you guys can tell me some stories.” 

“Stories are for children.” Lancelot’s objection is expected. Enough that Gawain is already nudging Lamorak to share the laugh and Galahad’s golden eyes are already fixed upon his father. 

“Tales of fiction might be childish, Father.” The white hedgehog grins, “But don’t we all spend most of our time recounting our exploits to others? We all have many interesting events we could recount, such as the story of how you got your sword.” 

“Hey, now that would be interesting to hear. I pulled Caliburn out of a tree, but what about the rest of you? How does a knight get a sacred sword?” 

Gawain’s boisterous laugh cut through the knight air, “Depends on the knight. Our Sir Saint over there, Galahad, caused quite a stir by pulling one from a stone in the river. Of course, for some reason, our saintly friend prefers not to use his sacred blade.” 

“Probably because it isn’t as easy to throw as his own sword.” Lamorak grins, “Or perhaps Sir Saint prefers to be more like the common knight than Sir Lancelot, our resident miracle worker. Certainly, our Galahad has also found great cause to avoid using his sacred shield.” 

“I would like to be known for my abilities, not because I have some divine weapons at my disposal.” The white hedgehog puffs out his chest. 

A chorus of laughter peels from the watching group, Gawain shaking his head, “Seems our Galahad is his father’s son after all.” 

Blushing, the white knight turns away, “I don’t want to be known for that either!” 

“There’s a story there. I’ll hear it later.” Sonic cuts through the noise, taking pity on the youngest knight, “So, which one of you is going to tell me the story of your blade first?”   
Whether it was pity for her usual patrol partner, or genuine delight to have an audience for her tale, Percival rose.

“I will, Sire.” 

Green feathers bounced as Lamorak nudged his companions, “This is a good one.” 

Something flashed in Lancelot’s gaze, “Is that because you are in this story, Lamorak?”

“Of course.” The avian blinked, “Did I use that line too much when you first became a knight? I was honestly only repeating myself because I thought you only spoke French.” 

“Don’t apologise, Lamorak. Sir Lake Knight let you believe that.” Gawain, the knight of the sun, grinned at his dark-furred rival, “I do however think this story will be thrilling. I recall the day you joined the order myself, Percival. But I am interested in seeing your side of things. If nothing else, it makes a pleasant change from hearing of Lancelot’s daring deeds.” 

The striped hedgehog laughed, “Unhappy I long surpassed you as the best knight in court, Gawain?”

“Of course not! You’ve been surpassed in turn, as all knights should expect to be. I don’t know why the whole court thinks us such vicious rivals. If I can make my peace with Lamorak, I can have no quarrel with you. Save your arrogance. But that is why we have tournaments, so that one may literally knock his arrogant brothers-in-arms from their high horses.” The echidna paused, a grin creeping up his face, “And I most certainly cannot be unhappy that you, the so-called ‘best knight in the world’, pulled that damsel from the tub when I could not. That fair creature did give us Galahad, and Sir Saintly has unhorsed you more than enough to make up for the blow to my youthful pride.” 

Another round of laughter—this time at Galahad’s grinning and Lancelot’s efforts to mask a scowl. 

At last, the black-furred hedgehog sighed, “Percival, you had better tell your story. Otherwise, Gawain and your brother will start recalling old tournaments and the sun will rise before we hear it.” 

A soft nod from the cat in question, “Of course, Sir Lancelot. I will tell it happily; if only to shield my dear brother from your tongue. Though, Sir Sonic, you may find it a little hard to believe. I don’t think you know Lamorak as I do.”

Emerald eyes light up with amusement, “Well, I can’t wait to hear this.”


	2. Percival's story

Sunlight danced off the metal blade, catching in amber eyes and making the young girl flinch. Sweat dripped down her face, staining the soft fabric of her tunic as she struggled against the weight of the sword. A standard blade, designed specifically for the Knights of the Round Table. It was commonplace for the novice knights, who had not yet found or commissioned a sword of their own. Young men who had spent years being trained by their fathers while she, a king’s daughter, had been hidden away. It had been chance she had followed her brothers here. It was luck that one had thought her worth training. 

Lamorak’s eyes had never felt so heavy when he watched her train, not like the hoard that had gathered now, knights who gazed down at her, judged her, and expected her to fail. Grinding her teeth, the girl tightened her grip on the hilt, her whole arm trembling as she tried to raise the weapon with muscles that had not been honed over her lifetime. Her ponytail was long undone, and feather-like hair clung to her face and hovered over one eye. 

Months of serving as her brother’s squire had hardened her to the ride, taught her everything she needed to know about armour and weaponry. She had grown stronger, seeing the world in his shadow. It just seemed she hadn’t grown strong enough. More knights joined the crowd, deep laughter cutting through her exhaustion to dance through her ears and the feline snarled. With every new set of eyes, the blade seemed more and more daunting. The longer she let its point linger on the grass field of the training ground, the more embedded it became. And she was tiring; rapidly. 

“Lamorak… perhaps you should stop this training. My uncle can be persuaded to move the trial. Give your sister more time to train. It may simply be that she does not yet possess the strength for this… but should she fail, they will say it is because she is a woman. There is a reason they do not recruit female knights. The King won’t give her a second chance if she can’t lift the blade.” 

The words and voice revealed that Gawain had joined the crowd of onlookers to her first public training display. Usually, Lamorak would take her to the forest and allow her to take any weapon from his collection. Often, she favoured a lance. Today, however, he had insisted she train like the others where she could be seen. He wanted to take her before the King soon. Because she had been told to train like any other knight, the cat herself had selected the long, silver sword. As it was her choice, she could not back down now. 

Of course, Gawain rarely arrived alone. He and Lancelot had fallen in with each other as young knights, and their positions as the King’s favourites had kept them close. Hearing the hedgehog’s voice came as no great surprise to Percival. 

“Lamorak, nothing good can come of this. End it before it ends her. She is young. There is time yet. If you love her, as you claim to do, you cannot continue to stand aside.” 

Flinching, the lilac cat could feel her shame burning on her face. Worse, she could feel actual flames rising; her powers, aching to defend her where her blade could not. She refused to cry. Refused to brand herself weak before this crowd of famed knights, while she waited for her brother, the knight she was apprenticed to, to force her to stand down. What choice did he have, hearing The King’s favourites speak so? 

In her moment of distraction, Percival let the blade slip from her hand. It clattered, bounced so close to her feet that she was forced to leap backwards, biting her own lips to hide a howl of surprise. With trembling hands, she bends to retrieve it, using all her strength of will to keep from sinking down beside the blade. Her brother’s hands snatched it up before she could. Amber eyes met icy blue, the feline sighing as she waited for that fatal order, the call to stand down. 

Instead, cold steel is pressed into her arms, and nimble fingers deliver a sharp flick to her nose. 

“Forget your pride, Percival. Forget what works for everyone else. You are fifteen. Young and barely trained. This,” And here Lamorak waves her practise sword, still in his own hand, “is too heavy. And I highly doubt it would ever be the type of blade you would use anyway. You are already treading new ground, trying to become a knight. Don’t make it any harder than it needs to be.” 

Uncertainly, the girl turns the blade, a long and thin thing, in her hands, admiring its point. She has seen it in her brother’s collection but never been drawn to it before. It has always seemed worthless, fragile… unfit for its purpose. The same way all these knights see her. 

Shaking her head to dislodge the hair from her eyes, soft fingers play with the golden hilt and knuckle guard and race along the sword’s white grip. She blinks slowly, “What type of sword is this, Brother?” 

“A Rapier. It’s long and light, best in the hands of one who is fleet and agile. You are both; aren’t you, Percy?” 

“Yes… but Lamorak, this sword—it looks important. It feels…” She breaks off, staring up at her brother. 

The hawk grins, “This, Percival, is the sacred sword Laevatein.” 

“What!” Shaking her head, the cat tries to hand the sword back, “I cannot take this, it is important, priceless. How did you even get such a thing?” 

“Being a knight has its perks. You find and win many things during your adventures. But I already have swords I adore. Father’s swords. Laevatein wasn’t meant for me.” Strong hands tug at strands of lilac hair as Lamorak retied his sister's fallen ponytail, “As for it being priceless… Well, you are wrong. It is precious, and the price for it is extremely high. Your smile and your happiness, Percy. I would trade it away for nothing less.” 

“Lamorak.”

The hawk grins, “No quest, no great miracle, no king or kingdom is more special than you. As a knight and as your brother, my greatest and longest quest will be to see you prosper and find your own place in the world. If that costs me a thousand swords; I’ll give them all up gladly.”   
Suddenly, the avian bends, blue eyes gleaming, “But the beauty of Laevatein, Percival, is that Sacred Swords can handle a lot of power and magic. There’s a reason Sirs Knight of the Sun and Knight of the Lake possess such blades. They allow them to use their gifts. Now, Percival, since you finally have a sword that can match your skill, why don’t you show these old, wearying knights what you can really do?”

With those words Lamorak retreats to the spectator group, cheerily waving off whatever Gawain is trying to say. The cat watches him, sees that Lamorak has settled back into the crowd and is watching her again. She flashes him a smile, bright and blinding. As bright as the flames that burst forth and consume her, propelling her onward towards her target. And strike, just before her sword, setting the training mark ablaze for all to see. A swift backflip augmented by a fiery tornado and she bows to the courtly crowd of watchers.   
The air hangs charged, silent before a single knight breaks into applause. 

Gawain, grinning at Lamorak, laughs, “Well if she does that before The King, we will have a female knight in our order.” 

Laevatein in hand, Percival smiles again, “Just wait until you see me fight a real opponent, Gawain.” 

Violet eyes are warm when they look at her, “Of course. I’d be honoured to if you chose me as your first opponent; when you become Sir Percival.”

* * *

“Well, you obviously impressed The King.” At some point in the story, it seemed Caliburn had decided to pay attention, “Though it is hard to believe Sir Lamorak was once so gentle.” 

Rolling his eyes, Lamorak snorts, “Lancelot and Gawain don’t need anyone to be gentle with them. Except perhaps each other. They would lose fewer sets of armour that way. I’m perfectly gentle with our younger knights.” 

“I’m not.” Lancelot’s eyes have narrowed again, “They have to learn. Battle is not a place they will be coddled.” 

“Really, Father?” Galahad’s grin speaks of mischief, “You’ve never been that way with me. Especially when I was trying to learn to wield a sword.” 

As the Lake Knight scowled, Lamorak looped an arm around the white-furred knight, “Well, Galahad, this is a story I want to hear. You should go next.”

“Indeed.” Percival shifted to settle against her brother, “I’ve never heard this story, have you, Gawain?” 

“You think Lancelot shared a story that wasn’t him at his dashing best?” Dreadlocks bounce as the echidna shakes his head, “I’d like to hear this too.” 

“Well, it’s unanimous.” Speaking before Lancelot could voice an objection, Sonic grins, “You’re next, Galahad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, some trivia here. While Percival is almost always a knight of noble birth, his exact parentage often varies by story. In this work, I am subscribing to the genealogy presented in Malory, making Percival a child of Pellinore and sibling to Lamorak. Percival is also the original Grail Knight before Galahad was introduced in later stories. 
> 
> Usually, the brother that Percival follows to Camelot is Aglovale... so Lamorak has had an age upgrade in this story, given that he is serving the same role as his older brother. I am attempting to only use characters introduced in SatBK for this particular story. While some other knights will be named, they are unlikely to appear. 
> 
> Percival's story is the least changed from the original work but is still vastly expanded from the early version.


	3. Galahad's story

The soft hiss of air is the only warning of what is coming. It is years of training, years of fighting and adventuring as a knight which saved the black hedgehog from a heart blow. As it was, the blade still left a shallow cut across a white-furred chest before the sword point buried itself in a tree. 

The startled squeak of his son made the Lake Knight blink. Crimson eyes examine the cut, experienced hands working the wound to and fro. 

Lancelot blinks again, slowly, “I am aware this fur stands out on my coat, Galahad, but I hope you don’t believe that this was what I intended you to use as a target.” 

Gold eyes blow wide as the blood begins to trail across the white ruff before becoming lost in the night dark shade of the rest of his father’s fur. Hands sliding from the trapped sword, Galahad winces, “Are you alright, Father?” 

Running a hand through his upturned quills, the older knight sighs, “I will heal. Fortunately, for both of us, the wound is not that deep. Patricide will, however, put an end to any prospect you have of me knighting you.” A smirk creeps up Lancelot’s muzzle, “Once, I thought your mother would be the end of me. Then I became convinced you would be the one to send me to my grave. Although, I did hope the risk of my death would be less once you were capable of protecting and defending yourself.”

A blush creeps up the younger hedgehog’s cheeks, “Sorry, Father.” 

“Worry not. I should have thought to don my armour. Even without sparring with your directly, swordplay does always come with a risk of injury. And, this way, I can at least admire the strength and speed behind your blow.” Smiling, the elder ruffles those straight, white quills, “You have been practising.” 

“Father! You’re bleeding! Don’t speak of this now!” 

A soft laugh escapes Lancelot, “Well if the sight of such wounds upsets you, knighthood may be a problem. I am afraid I often carry marks of my battles upon me.”

Narrowing his eyes, Galahad frowns, “So you will not be troubled if I return scarred?” 

Lancelot’s head tilts slightly, “As your father, they will worry me. As a commanding knight, I will hope that you leave your opponents looking worse. If it cheers you up, when you become a true knight, you can help me avenge each wound.” 

“I did not think we would be spending much time together, Father. Don’t you have a lot of duties to attend to?” 

“I do.” Petting his son’s head, Lancelot laughs, “In fact, I should be leaving in a few minutes to return to Camelot. But you are my only son, my only child. I believe I can spare you a few days to ensure you know your way around and are settling in.” Watching the boy frown, the knight laughs again, “I can give you my word, Galahad, when we part ways, I will not follow you on your quests. I tracked you through the woods when you were young because you had a terrible habit of getting lost. Now you are grown, I shall have to let you start to handle the consequences of your actions alone. Unless you ask for my assistance.” 

A soft smile graces the younger hedgehog’s features, “Thank you, Father.” The blush returns across Galahad’s cheeks, “I think I might need your help now.” 

“Yes. What did go wrong with that swing?” Lancelot’s gaze examines Arondight for damage before he frees the blade from the tree, “I assume you’ve assessed your mistakes yourself now?” 

“Yes. I couldn’t make the blade go where I wished. It seems to fight me whenever I try.” 

“Hmm.” Sheathing his sword, Lancelot frowns, “Well, Arondight is my blade, it was designed for me and me alone. Even though you are my son, you are not required to fight or think like me.” 

Gold eyes settle on the ground, forcing Lancelot to squeeze the boy’s shoulder, “Do not despair, Galahad. The fault lies with the blade, not with you. I’m sure I’ll find some solution during my travels. A sword more suited to you.” Gently, the father nudges his child, “You wouldn’t have been able to use Arondight when you were knighted anyway, that blade goes where I do. There is nothing lost in this.”

“I suppose.” 

* * *

A few weeks later, the white-furred hedgehog grinned as his powers sent a small arrow-like blade flying forward. 

Across from him, his opponent smirked, “You almost had me that time, my son. And I actually was what you were aiming for. Well done.” 

“Father.” Golden eyes roll as Galahad flicks the blade forward again, “Take this fight seriously.” 

“You want me to use my powers? It would be such as shame to end your knightly career the same day I have just taken the trouble to knight you myself.” Camelot’s greatest knight laughs, “No, Galahad, I haven’t used them on you yet for a reason. But I will when you have found your own stride as a knight. You will need someone to train your own abilities with, after all.” 

“Right.” The boy smiles, catching his sword, “The new blade helps. Thank you, Father. You figured out exactly what I needed.” 

“Well, I have known you your entire life, Galahad. I would hope I understood you a little by now. Though, only a little. You have always been different to me.” Red eyes soften, “Of course, I would have you no other way, my son.” 

Nudging the older male, the white hedgehog laughs, “Feeling possessive, Father?” 

“Nostalgic, actually.” The father smiles, “My mother only called me son. ‘My Son’, that was how she addressed me. I was not called Lancelot until I left my home. Until I became a knight. I actually discovered it on a quest. Eighteen is far too old to discover who you are. I am glad you know me as your father, Galahad. I am sorry you will know me as a knight.” 

“I think I already know you as a knight, Sir Lancelot.” Galahad smiles, “Stories such as yours travel, even to a nunnery.” 

“Ah. So, you face me in full confidence then, Sir Galahad?” Lancelot can only laugh as his son blushes at the new title, “I shall not make it easy for you, my son. It would dishonour us both.” 

“Of course. I would have it no other way, Father.” The White Knight grins, “But I want to be one of the greatest knights in the world—even if I don’t surpass you.” 

“Oh, I know you will surpass me, Galahad. I just don’t intend to make it easy for you.” 

“You shouldn’t have brought me this blade then. Though, thank you. Again.” 

“Think nothing of it, Galahad. You will only come of age once. You will have to forgive me if it takes me some time to adapt to you being a knight as well as my son.” 

“Being able to treat me as just another knight? That might take one of your famous miracles, Father.” Laughing, the white hedgehog slumps back on the grass, enjoying a look at his childhood home—to be left for good in the morning. 

Slowly, gold eyes blink, “Wait… you did not know your name until you were older than I am? I thought you said your original name was Galahad. That my mother named me after you?” 

“It was. Once.” 

Golden eyes roll, “And you believe me difficult to understand, Sir Lancelot.” 

* * *

“Wait, wait.” The interjection comes from Sonic, “Lancelot and Galahad were both called Galahad once? And Lancelot, your own mother didn’t call you by name?” 

“His foster mother, The Lady of the Lake. Hence why he is Lancelot du Lac, The Lake Knight.” Lamorak rolls his eyes, “The fey are funny with names.” 

“Well, so is everyone else.” Gawain’s smirk is chilling, “Try to keep up with this, Sire. Lancelot, who was once called Galahad, is the son of King Ban and Elaine. Lancelot also has a son, Galahad, with an Elaine. He also had a young lady quite enamoured with him. Her name was also Elaine. Trying to keep Lancelot’s Elaines straight is a quest that would best most knights.” 

Emerald eyes widen, “Is there a trick to this or—” 

“Elaine of Corban, The Fisher King’s daughter, is the one who is Galahad’s mother. Elaine of Astolat is Lancelot’s tournament admirer.” The echidna grins, “Not that you’ll have much cause to meet them.” 

Scowling, Lancelot glares at his red-furred companion, “You should hardly be the one bringing this up. Your cousin is called Ywain… in fact, there are two of them. They’re brothers. And, of course, your brothers, Gareth, Gaheris.” 

Humming softly, Percival speaks, “Didn’t Tristan have two Isoldes?” 

“Not at once. Tristan only married one after he was forced to leave the other. ” Lamorak frowns, “We have the same problem with Ector, Bors… It’s easy to confuse Agravain with Aglovale.” 

Lancelot frowns, “And very unfortunate to do so, given the family history between Lot and Pellinore.” 

“Aglovale is our brother.” Answering the unspoken question in the King’s eyes, Lamorak shrugs, “Agravain is Gawain’s.” 

“Pelleas and Pelles are a problem.” 

“Isn’t that why we call Pelles The Fisher King?” 

“No! Stop! Let’s not get caught up in this.” Shaking his head, the blue hedgehog rolls his eyes, “You’d think you guys would be more creative with names.” 

“Well, Lancelot’s old name going to Galahad is rather nice.” Gawain grins, “Once we thought Lancelot would be Sir Saintly, so determined to work his miracles, he was almost ethereal. At least with his son around, the great knight actually shows emotion.”

“Oh, come on Gawain. Having a child changes everyone.” Lamorak throws his arm around his fellow knight. 

Observing the avian, Lancelot smirks, “Speaking from experience, Lamorak?” 

“No. I don’t have any children.” The hawk blinks, “I’m one of the only knights who does not. Gawain does. What was it again, your son’s name? Florence? Lovell?” 

“Florence and Lovell. They’re both too young to be knights.” Gawain frowns, “But I would follow up with your companions, Lamorak. I am not sure your statement is true.” 

For a few minutes, the silence of the night creeps in as Lamorak and Gawain stare each other down. Barely audible over the sound of the flames, Galahad whispers to Percival, while Lancelot draws his sword. 

With a sigh, Sonic speaks, “Next story? Anyone? Please.” 

“I’ll go.” Gawain offers with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “Perhaps this story will help you understand our devotion to your predecessor, Sir Sonic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galahad really does have a sacred sword in stories, two in fact. But neither really worked for the sword we see Galahad given in the game. Given his status as a virtuous knight it seems fitting that he would use a normal sword. Of course, Galahad is one of the more contested figures in their depictions within the legend, his depictions range from the perfect knight, who gets along with everyone, to an inhuman creature who most knights despise.
> 
> The combination of characters with similar names is also common place in works based on the Arthurian mythology. Combined with the assorted spellings for each name and it can be confusing keeping the characters straight.


	4. Gawain's story

Being traded to his uncle for the sake of peace and to ensure the protection of his younger siblings—still with his mother—had felt important at the time. He had felt strong and adult, serving as the protector of his family in his father’s stead. It was with an air of grandeur and self-importance that he had ventured to Camelot. And, upon setting foot before the King, it was when that illusion shattered. 

Arthur was still young; his mother had told him so. Young to have won so many allies and victories, though Gawain could not judge that for himself. His uncle was hidden beneath a gleaming mass of armour, the light catching across gold so dark, it was almost black. Compared to the unarmed prince before him, Arthur seemed like war incarnate. 

Air caught in the echidna’s throat as he contemplated something he had never considered; there were kings stronger than his father in this world. 

“You are Gawain, aren’t you?” The voice from within the armour echoed oddly, “I remember you, you came here with your mother, while Lot still lived.” 

“Yes, Sire.” In truth, Gawain does not recall meeting the King; if he ever had. Camelot had been new and fascinating, and Father had believed Arthur would soon fall. He had warned his children to pay Arthur no heed. Gawain had obeyed him too well. 

“You may address me as Uncle. I do not need such formality from my sister’s son.” 

“Uncle.” Gawain tries the word, surprised. Sometimes his own father insisted on being addressed as King Lot by his own children. 

“Your mother tells me you wish to be a knight. That that is your goal in coming to my kingdom.” With an uneasy creak, the great King rises from his throne, “Come, tell me of your journey here. Then you must rest. I will test your abilities tomorrow, Gawain. Though, I shall not show you leniency or favouritism because you are family. If you become a knight in my court, it is because you have earned it.” 

Though the King’s expression was unknowable, a single chuckle crept through the halls as the great knight pulled his sword from its scabbard, “A gift of my faith, nephew. Excalibur. Take it.” 

Violet eyes can only stare as the great golden blade is placed in his grasp, “Uncle, you said-"

“That I could not show you favouritism tomorrow. Fortunately, tomorrow has not yet arrived. Today I can give yo u a blade and tomorrow you could choose to use it.” The King’s head tilts, regarding his guest, “I have been told a king rarely get a chance to adventure. Excalibur is a fine blade, one made for greatness and glory. It does not deserve to grow dull and dim here like the rest of my armaments. You may be able to give it a good purpose. That, we shall see tomorrow.”

* * *

Though the battle had raged since sunrise, Gawain was not weary. In fact, with each hour the sun rose higher, he was a little stronger, a little better. Many of Arthur’s knights charged, fell. Few returned for a second bout. Less for a third. None yet had dared try to charge the King’s nephew a fourth time. 

Currently, the greatest threat on the field was Pellinore. He and Gawain were likely swinging a little too hard for such a friendly spar, but their history ran deep. The gold hawk had set out to provoke and Gawain had happily answered. Now the experience of one was waging war against the youthful, brutish strength of the other. All before the eyes of their King who, as promised, was not interfering. In fact, he had concealed any connection to Gawain at all. Only the upper ranks of his court, like Pellinore, were aware they faced the King’s nephew. The rest had simply been introduced to Sir Gawain, newly knighted by the King but not yet allowed to serve his cause. 

They had been introduced to a new king, with the King’s golden blade in his hand. And now it seemed, Gawain understood why Arthur had given him the blade. Nothing seemed to enrage the knights more than the King making sword in the hands of a stranger. Not without knowing what such a gesture meant. Chivalry had long left this battle. 

The hot pain of a fresh cut pulled Gawain from Pellinore, who he disengaged from with a blow that sent the hawk stumbling. Wheeling around, the echidna turned Excalibur on the knight who had struck him from behind, forcing the man’s helm off with a vicious snarl, disarming him with another blow. Then turning, just in time to take another strike from an opportunist who was also swiftly dispatched. 

However, these distractions had been enough to allow the foes to encircle him. Eyes narrowed, Gawain snarled and spun, putting all his strength in the blow, striking one knight, then the next and the one after, knocking all down with a single blow despite the swords raining in on his other side. 

A quick, panting breath and the echidna straightened, raising Excalibur once more ready to strike the remainder of his attackers. Already, he could see fear and regret in some of those eyes. Ignoring his hurts, another vast swing tore swords from long trained hands and blood from well-travelled knights. Another swing, with the flat of the blade, swept the knights’ legs from under them. With little thought for his now downed opponents, Gawain frowned, seeking Pellinore and challenge once more. 

Across the field, the King held up a single hand. In perfect unison, the field rang with the sounds of discarded armour and lowered swords. In a sea of movement, healers and knights converge together, assessing injuries and exchanging stories. A myriad of squires, happily watching the combat from the shade of the castle to learn techniques from the knights, weave amongst the crowds, gathering the forgotten tools of war for quick reassembly and inspecting each part for damage. The life of those who lived by the blade and the code of chivalry. 

The King’s eyes are busy surveying his knights, overseeing that all is in order with his world. Even as Gawain jogs over, a bright grin on his face. The echidna bounces on the balls of his feet, keen to show the King that he is still able to fight and worthy of both his newly given knighthood and a place in his uncle’s court. It seems the King enjoyed the sight, as his eyes take an agonisingly long time before they settle on his nephew. 

“So? What did you think of that, Sire?”

“Uncle.” The King’s correction is gentle. After a brief pause, another glance at his wounded knights, Arthur laughs, “Well, I am sure my pages will not thank you for throwing that shield away at the start of the battle. I wasn’t watching it that closely but it’s absence on the battlefield leaves me to fear it has been lost to the pond.” 

“Ah.” Rubbing his head, the red furred knight grins, “Shields don’t really work for me.”

“I’ve noticed. You are strong and that strength carries you through. It is a style that works for you but one which requires rapid reactions and the ability to attack from all positions.” Arthur pauses, extending a hand, “I believe Excalibur is ill-suited for such a task. You had best return it; perhaps one of your brothers might prove a good fit for it. I may even wield it myself a little longer. But I would not take a sacred sword from you without offering something just as valuable in return. I have some blades in my collection that I believe will suit you perfectly. After all you’re going to serve as a knight in my court, the least I can do is see you well armed.”

* * *

“As you can see, my uncle kept his word.” Grinning, Gawain displays his swords, “Galatine suits me perfectly.”

“Of course, it does.” Percival laughs, “Those spikes pack quite the punch.” 

“Almost as much as Gawain’s wit.” Having once more detangled himself from Lamorak, who had apparently joined him during the story, Lancelot smirks. 

The hawk, without his two companions, laughs, “Ah, the three of us have some good stories. Back when we were brash and careless knights.”

“When?” Percival and Galahad speak in unison. 

Sonic only grins, “Oh, you three were rebellious once. I thought my arrival marked the only time Lancelot and Gawain ever went against King Arthur.” 

“Bah, you think that.” Mischief flashes across a yellow beak, “You don’t know what Lancelot, the foreign flower of our court, got up to in his spare time. It is hard to be an obedient knight when one is simply waiting for their lord to leave so that they may ‘console’ his lonely wife.” 

“Lancelot and the Queen, the worst kept secret in the court. Possibly the entire country.” Gawain smirks, “Galahad, had you heard of such a thing?” 

“Yes.” The Silver Knight frowns, “Even in the nunnery.” 

Laughing, Percival nudges her partner. “I grew up in the woods, away from all the courts and even I had heard those stories.” 

Emerald eyes blink slowly and Sonic laughs, awkward and uncomfortable, “Well, it’s a good thing I don’t have any plans to marry.” The blue hedgehog clears his throat, “So Gawain, any chance you want Caliburn back? I’m worried I have to ditch this sword before I ever have a chance to return home.” 

“Don’t be foolish. I was not the one who brought you into this world.” By Sonic’s side, the sword in question spoke, “You’ll have to raid Merlina’s research for that.” 

“Clearly, not tonight’s task.” Purple eyes narrow at the talking sword, possibly at the prospect of endless reading, “Lamorak, since you and I are the only dual wielding knights, how did you come to embrace such an unorthodox style?” 

“Actually, brother, I’d be curious to know the same.” Moving to settle beside the hawk, Percival stifled a yawn, “You have never told me that story.” 

“Really? How odd.” Feather’s puffing out, the avian grins, “It actually involves my father and I would be happy to tell it.” 

“Pellinore?” Gawain’s tone is hard to read. Still, Lancelot growls. 

“If you intend to bring that old feud into this again, Gawain—” 

Waving the other off, Gawain sighs, “No. I asked for this story. I am honour bound to see it through.”

Plumage preened, Lamorak smiles, “Very well then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sword Gawain wields varies. Sometimes he is given Excalibur from his uncle as a sign of his favour and position as a potential successor for Arthur. This is because Arthur rarely joins the battles once his kingdom is secure. Other stories give Gawain Galatine as his blade. It was fun to play with both ideas here.


	5. Lamorak's story

Being the son of a great king, one who was renowned for his skills both in and out of battle, was not easy. Being the second son of such a king was even harder. Lamorak often wondered why he was obliged to suffer through the same dull lessons as Aglovale, even when there was only a small chance he would be the one to inherit his father’s throne. After all, there was every chance a rival lord would steal the land or that his brother would simply survive to inherit it. Worse—knowing Father—there was every chance some of those rival knights would have an actual claim of descent to back up their armies and wars. 

Knighthood was his best chance to glory, and Lamorak was determined not to let the opportunity pass him by. He trained every day, always in the knowledge that it would be hard to escape the reputation of his father and harder still to stand out from his large family. One that seemed determined to yield a large number of accomplished warriors… and pursue a Questing Beast, whatever that happened to be. Truthfully, the young hawk was beginning to suspect it may be some code for women, with how often his father was absent in his efforts to catch the thing. 

Still, Father was home presently and actually patiently watching his second son swinging his sword around. Watching each jab and feint with the eyes of an expert but not yet offering to serve as an opponent. Dimly, the younger hawk wondered if his father ever would. Perhaps such personal attentions were reserved for women and his father’s first-born. 

Every hum from Pellinore’s throat made his son flinch as if he had been dealt a blow. None of the tutors in the castle could match his father in skill, perhaps the great King found his own child’s talents were also lacking. Heat burning his checks, the green feathered hawk slashed harder, cutting deeper into each training dummy he faced. The weight of the sword and the rhythmic motion of each stroke dimmed behind the shame of being watched. Lamorak kept striking, moving mechanically through the familiar motions of training until he could strike no more. His blade was stuck. Blue eyes blinked as the young hawk admired the crack he had caused in his courtyard, his sword embedded within in.   
Before the young boy could try to tug the blade free, his father’s voice echoed across the space. 

“Leave it, Lamorak. I have something else I want you to try.” 

Eyes wide, the young hawk wanders over. New swords gleam in his father’s hands, a fine pair. Their shape was unusual, a short blade on a long hilt, almost like an axe.  
Frowning, the green hawk runs his hands across the blades, “Are you going to spar with me, father?” 

Lamorak, to his great shame, recognises the smile running across his father’s golden features as one that he saves for castle servants and errant damsels. Those he wanted to persuade to do something against their better judgement and even their own natures. Paired with the sight of himself in the centre of his father’s gaze, as if he was the only thing that mattered in the whole world, the younger hawk knew he was doomed. 

“Me, no. These are both for you, Lamorak. To use as a pair. You are perfectly capable, stronger than myself and Aglovale. I am glad you are my second son; strength like yours was made for battle, not wasting away in a throne room, listening to pleas and crimes.” 

The flattery has the intended effect, the boy has the twin swords in his hands. Still, some part of him hesitates, “I won’t need a shield?” 

“No. Your foes will crumble beneath your strength and skill. I would expect nothing less from my son, a fine addition to our great legacy, that’s what you are Lamorak?”

The boy frowns, “Pursuing the Questing Beast?”

Laughter grows deep in his father’s chest, “I may slay it yet, my boy. And many others might take up our bloodline’s duty. Just do what pleases you. A talented knight may have his pick of the damsels in the land. I fear you may be far too busy for pursuing the beast… especially as there is a lot of my looks and charm within you, son.” 

Blue eyes fight the urge to roll as the younger hawk tests the weight of his new blades, “I don’t think I can surpass you like that, Father.”

The elder grins, “No? Then you had best try actually using those swords. I deem it your duty to be a greater knight than I.” 

With a solemn nod, Lamorak wanders back to his training dummy. First, he swings one sword, then the other. The blows are slow and clumsy, each of the axe-like blades dragging across the ground when not in use.

“Keep them at your side, Lamorak. And try a little faster.” Pellinore is content to offer advice from where he leans on the rails. 

With a small growl, the younger hawk tries again, fighting against the weight of each sword, swinging again and again, trying not to overbalance as he pulls the blade back from its deadly arc and deals another blow with the second. Again. Again. Waiting for his father to call him off. But the call doesn’t come, and the swords are growing heavy in weary arms. Lamorak mistimes a blow, swinging one sword while still recalling the other. The blades collide with a deafening ring, their combined weight and force overbalancing the young hawk, sending him crashing to the ground. The handle of one sword slams down atop green feathers and Lamorak takes a moment to be grateful for the small, compact blades. 

It’s only the sound of racing feet that make Lamorak aware that his father has jumped the rails of the training arena. Strong hands methodically run across the newly forming lump on the side of Lamorak’s head and down one arm that the young avian suddenly releases hurts. Relief floods into his gaze at the lack of blood. 

The gold hawk shakes his head, “Harder than you expected?” 

“I can’t do it, Father.” Now he knows his arm hurts, Lamorak can’t stop rubbing it even as it elicits a hiss from his throat.

“It’s only day one. You will learn.” Pellinore’s smile is wistful, “It is a curse of the young that you want time to go by so fast. Always you want the next milestone, the next big achievement. The fame and prestige of success or praise. So unaware that even failure can be a lesson and one worth learning. Don’t feel you have failed, Son. I had no delusions that you would instantly master a new fighting style. It is only because of my utter faith in you and what you can do that I even suggested you try such a thing. I certainly cannot fight this way. I am proud you were brave enough to try.” 

“I’ll go again.” The young hawk offers, half rising to his feet. 

Pellinore pulls him down without looking, “No, Lamorak. That is enough for today. You are like me in every way. Too eager to go again and too keen to join the battle. Of course, that is how I know you will be a brilliant knight; you will work at it until you are. But you are too young to be perfect, and there are plenty of other ways you should spend your days. Besides, if I bring you home too injured, your mother shall be furious with me… and right when I have need of her companionship, as all our children prepare to fly the nest.” King Pellinore laughs, “Practise tomorrow if you must. I shall even indulge you in a little battle.” 

The young hawk grins, “Even when I have two swords to your one?”

“I believe age and experience will spare me from a disadvantage, Lamorak.” The older hawk grins, crushing his son against him in a hug, “Of course, I find so hard to raise my blade against my own, precious son. Imagine if I did you harm! I would need the company of at least a dozen fine maids before I even began to feel remotely like smiling again.” 

“Father!” Lamorak groans, scrambling free. His eyes narrow as he looks at the preening King on the floor, “Wait! You spar with Aglovale all the time!”

“Yes. But Aglovale is rather dull. It’s the only way to stop him talking of kingship and duties! I don’t feel so bad about him. Shamelessly, Lamorak, I admit you are my favourite!”

* * *

Breaking off, Sir Lamorak groans, “Even as a child, hearing I was his favourite was not the compliment my father believed. Or hearing I was like him. I mean, I need a genealogy from every pretty girl I meet! There is a very real chance we share a father!”

Beside him, Percival groans, “Indeed. Anyone unsure of their parentage likely suspects Father as a potential sire. Still, Lamorak, I did not know he could be so attentive and gentle as you described him.” 

“Pellinore and I had our issues,” Nudging Lancelot hard for the laugh that escapes at those words, Gawain continues, “but he was a good knight.” 

“When not at the tavern. Or with some Lady or maid.” Lamorak sighs, “Which was most of the time.” 

“Really, Sire, if you want to imagine Pellinore, picture Lamorak but… worse.” Lancelot shudders, “Much, much worse.” 

“Really, Lancelot? Sleeping with married women—as my father often did—is more your vice than mine.” The hawk laughs, “Though I suppose he didn’t have your twisted view on miracles or your odd self-loathing for your faults.”

“Abandon this pursuit you two. Speaking of Pellinore will only lead to trouble in the end.” Violet eyes roll, “Lancelot, why don’t you tell us about Arondight? Unless you want your sins aired in public… again.” 

“No.” The red striped hedgehog sighs, “But there really is not that much to tell around Arondight. It is not an interesting story.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pellinore's number of children can vary vastly. Regardless, they Aglovale often rules over lands other than his father's, specifically the lands belonging to the mother of his son, Morien. Aglovale only returns to Britain later, either before the execution of Guinevere or before the Grail Quest, depending on the version.
> 
> Lamorak is usually considered the Round Table's third strongest knight. Of all the rewritten sword stories, Lamorak's has probably undergone the most changes, with his relationship with his father being reworked.


	6. Lancelot's story

“Really?” Emerald eyes narrow as Sonic starts down the self-proclaimed ultimate knight, “I didn’t think you did uninteresting. Aren’t all your stories about entering tournaments in disguise, taking on a hundred knights and slipping out before someone calls you out? Or beating foes with unfair odds, saving women, recruiting a small army of loyal followers, rejecting the advances of some women or growing up in your enchanted lake? You’re probably the first guy anyone thinks of when talking of knights. But you don’t have an interesting story on how you got your sword?”

“Hardly.” The red stripped hedgehog yawns, “My sword, like many others, including Galatine—should you wish to know where Arthur found it—was a gift from The Lady of Lake. But I did not have to prove myself for such a sword. I was trained always to be a knight, and time passed so strangely beneath the lake, I may have trained for centuries of your mortal lives. Sometimes it is hard to say. But fighting here, it is much easier than facing the fae of my home: enchanted knights who could not miss, or bleed or tire. Now I find my skills here make me almost their equal. So I have Arondight, a blade made from starlight and equal to Excalibur at times. I did not always feel so worthy to wield it; Secace was the sword of my youth and early adventures. The original was eventually lost to a dragon. Arondight became my sword after that.”

“That sounds like a good story.” Flashing a smile, Sonic laughs, “I’ve always wanted to go on a dragon hunt with you, Lancelot. I think it'll be nostalgic for me.” 

Wide ruby eyes and an open gape say more about Lancelot’s feelings about that proposal than words ever could. 

Lamorak and Gawain's gazes meet, “You know, now I think about it, I do recall you using a different sword.” The hawk grins awkwardly, “Then, one day, you did not return with it.”

“Seems he may have lost it to dragon fire.” Eyes shining, the echidna grins, “Come, Sir Ultimate, share some story to prove that you are flesh and blood and capable of faults like the rest of us!” 

“Very well!”

* * *

Dap had equipped him well for going to slay such a beast. No armour, it was too heavy for a knight unused to such a thing. A shield, well made—as his was—would do for the average fire drake. After all, the trick to slaying dragons was speed, lest they cause too much damage. Of course, why the old squire had insisted that he bring Arondight alongside Secace was a mystery. He had had no need for the sacred sword in other battles. But Dap had insisted and—after three years of rigorous training under him—Lancelot was sure his squire’s logic was sound. 

It was not a testament to his skills as a tracker, but instead proof of the destructive nature of dragon’s that Lancelot found his quarry in a mere three days. The beast was not an unusually large dragon, nor did it have a cave or hoard to guard. This was unfortunate only because it ensured the dragon was awake and active even at the height of the day. Tethering his horse safely away from the battle, Arondight strapped to the saddle, the young knight approached his foe. 

Fortune did favour Lancelot, young and inexperienced with beasts such as this, that he had grown up amongst the fae. As a result, the dragon’s scales which shone like molten gold, did not dazzle or daze him and he saw only a cruel beast in those crystal-like eyes. He had spent his youth avoiding sharp claws and sharper teeth and years of listening for supernaturally light footfalls had strengthened his hearing. 

Which is why he was perfectly able to leap over the dragon’s lashing tail when it tried to fake him out by pretending to swipe with a wing. And it was his well-honed reflexes that had the shield up before the wing could actually come down on him. Beneath the cover, the dark-furred hedgehog drove his blade up, slashing at the weaker membrane of the wing, sending the dragon bucking back. 

Using the space, the dragon had created between them, Lancelot leapt back, circling the beast and refusing to offer it an easy target. Scaly neck and tail whipped around again, and again as strong wings beat at the dirt. And this was where Lancelot had let his inexperience show. The drafts from the dragon’s wings were getting under his shield, billowing about his body and threatening to knock him to the ground. Speed was meaningless if he was being blown about too much to use it. Arrogance led to him discarding the shield. The need to prove himself was what drove Lancelot to charge at the dragon. That was how he learnt that steel was no match for a dragon’s fire. 

Discarding his melting blade, the dark-furred hedgehog bolted. Unarmed, he was no match for a beast like this, not with his powers so raw and untested. But Arondight, nestled away in the trees offered another chance. Bark and branches snapped as the dragon gave chase, but it was too big and too slow to catch the fleet hedgehog. Wrenching his star forged sword from its wrappings, Lancelot turned the blade on the reins of his fine, white mare, allowing the horse a chance to flee. Then, hoping for surprise, the hedgehog spun on his heel, racing back towards the fiery threat. 

Fleet, reptilian eyes follow the hedgehog’s rapid motion, but the beast’s body is not as swift. And the forest provides a fine prison for the monster as large as a dragon. Its wings are pinned to its sides, its limbs entangled in trees and vines of ivy. Still, it tries to strike. Ducking beneath the razor claws, Lancelot landed his first damaging blow, Arondight ripping through the gleam scales of the dragon’s soft belly. Wheeling, roaring in pain and anger, the dragon’s flames blast through the treeline. Freed from the forest’s confines, the dragon rears, tail splitting the ground like a whip. 

Young and unaware, Lancelot is grateful to be without his armour as he rolls and jumps to avoid the burning debris raining down upon him. So engaged is he in avoiding burning branches and blazing leaves, he fails to see the new flame welling in the dragon’s throat. The heat of the approaching flames burns his dark fur. Pain stills his shield arm, even as Lancelot turns to meet the blast. Honour has ruled his life. He will at least go down fighting. Blade raised, the knight waits for the fire to consume him… only for Arondight, bright and gleaming, to part the fire as easy as it parts flesh. Blinking, Lancelot’s crimson gaze confirms he is unhurt. The blade in his hand gleams and burns… but is unharmed. Arondight, the sword forged from the stars… what match is dragon fire compared to that?

Grinning wildly, the young knight discards his shield. Sacred sword in hand, Lancelot stares down his foe. A lesser knight might consider their survival a miracle and flee. For Lancelot, it is a sign, one of the world-changing deeds he hopes preform. This beast will take no other life. He will make sure of it.

* * *

“So… Arondight is dragon-proof?” Gawain nudges the blade in awe. 

“It would appear to have some resistance.” Lancelot offers his treasured blade to his companion, “I did not drag the fight out long enough to truly test that theory. I am not one to be ungrateful for the miracles I am allowed to perform.” 

“Not your miracles again, Lancelot.” Laughing, Lamorak rolls his eyes, “All you wanted to do when you were knighted was to work some miracle. Between you and Galahad we have no need for any holy man, temple or priests. I am sure you could teach us better than any of them.” 

“Yes. Well, let’s not forget that our Galahad here is the byproduct of Lancelot’s first true miracle. His fair mother was destined to be rescued only by the best knight in the world.” Violet eyes glow with mischief, “Perhaps you would like to hear that story, Sir Sonic?” 

“Yep.” The blue blurs grin is blinding, “That is definitely a story I want to hear.” 

With a shy grin, Galahad speaks, “I think I had better help him tell that. I know the version my mother told. I suspect she is far more accurate in her information.”

With closed eyes, Lancelot groans, “Your mother spent five years of her youth imprisoned in a boiling pot. Her ideas of normal life, interactions and social behaviour are all things I find questionable.” 

“I grew up unaware that males existed.” Across the fire, Percival laughs, “I believe I have turned out fine. Sometimes, ignorance is a blessing, not a curse.” 

“With our father? Definitely.” A weary grin from the avian knight, “He doesn’t have a good record with his daughters.” 

A soft groan fills the camp as the knights exchange awkward looks. At last, Galahad offers a strained smile 

“I suspect we have an entire night’s worth of stories.” 

Blinking, Sonic laughs, “Only one? I think we might have to have another trip if we want to hear them all.”

“Tavern.” Five voices ring out in unison. 

Percival’s ponytail bounces as she shakes her head, “If you want to hear stories, Sir Sonic, the tavern is where they are usually told. And where you can usually locate some of your knights, if they ever happen to be missing.” 

“So… Lancelot, Gawain and Lamorak?” The blue hedgehog grins at the scowls on his younger knights’ faces, “That’ll be interesting to see. Looks like I know where we’re going next.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, Lancelot did not share his story. However, as the original story expanded and developed his personality changed. As a result, to comply with later portrayals, Lancelot needed to tell his story too. This is the result. My rather useless trivia here is that, despite it's popularity in modern media, Arondight was not the name given to Lancelot's sword in Arthurian mythology. That sword was Seure or Secace, if the blade was named at all and it often wasn't. Arondight was instead named in Sir Bevis of Hampton, where it was not wielded by Lancelot but is noted to be the sword with which he slayed a dragon. 
> 
> Dap here is actually Lancelot's uncle Gwenbors from the Once and Future King. He is known as Uncle Dap and joins Lancelot in England as his Squire after serving as Lancelot's instructor while he was growing up in France.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a remake of a story that I started almost a decade ago and originally posted on my Fanfiction account . Some small segments also migrated here and DA, but never the full text. 
> 
> When I first started, the concept for Behind the Book wasn't a true story, just a collection of short ideas I had following Sonic and the Black Knight. As a result, the story existed as short arcs and had odd intervals and interruptions. It was also far from my best work. But, eventually, it evolved. Became a world of its own and developed a more intricate plot and a few spin-offs for ideas I couldn't fully fit in the main work. As a result, in it's original from, the story didn't exist how I wanted it. This new version is an effort to create a more cohesive and flowing version. I will, however, leave the original up. Both because this version has a number of changes to the original text and because of all the fantastic support I received regarding the original work.


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